Secret Agent Man
by FesteringInsanity
Summary: The first thing you must know, is that Agent Coulson Is Badassery. Badass is his second name, we believe. His first name is Agent. (Agent Coulson, God of Secret Agents)


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

The fellow agents who had been stationed on the Helicarrier had started it, in awe of his guts and bravery, impressed by what he dared do, and what his sacrifice allowed to occur. It had not been a joke on their part, though Barton had considered it a perfect prank opportunity and a way for everyone to show their appreciation for Coulson's contribution in saving the world.

When he returned to his office in the HQ after the Incident on the Helicarrier and a few months spent in hospital recovering, accompanied by Sitwell, who for some odd reason looked very nervous, Coulson found a few somewhat pleasant surprises. For example, the snack machine outside of his office, full of donuts, and a new coffee maker stocked up with his favorite brand, both with a sign "Offerings to the God of Badass Secret Agents".

Inside the office itself was a new and huge board on one of the previously empty walls, with dozens of post-it notes with various requests, and underneath it stood a table with a shrine made of pens, sunglasses, ties, coffee cups, airplane tickets, swiss knifes, Captain America merchandise, videotapes and CDs of Supernanny, as well as many other items, loosely organised by type and piled on and under the desk to support it.

"What… What is this? And what's up with the snack machine?" Coulson asked, bemused.

"All Hail Agent Coulson, God Of All Badass Secret Agents and not so Badass ones; God of Secrets and Secret Agencies; God of Efficiency; God of Badassery; God of Fresh and Hot Coffee. May you guide us in your missions, may you keep our coffees hot and full as we struggle to stay awake doing paperwork. May you guide our bullets to our targets and keep our flamethrowers going, as we bust out of AIM bases." Sitwell solemnly recited, and then smirked.

"I'm what?" Coulson stared at Jasper. The agent suddenly broke out in a sweat, and gulped, his smile and amusement gone. Coulson restrained a smirk. That was why he was senior to Jasper. Fury did not abide those who were visibly nervous. Being unflappable was a necessity, especially when faced by a one-eyed maniac secret agent whose lies lied about being lies. Jasper, however, persevered with his obviously pre-prepared speech.

"The impossible man who makes James Bond look like a rookie. The Agent of Agents. He who can finish any pile of paperwork in a night, consume three jugs of coffee, and then take out a terrorist cell with a bag of flour, killing the leader with a pair of sunglasses, and the bodyguards with a clipboard. The one who has memorised the names, rulebooks and all senior agent profiles of all Agencies, except SHIELD about which he knows everything. The one Fury hired because he is afraid of losing the other eye. " Sitwell mock-seriously chanted, hands clasped in prayer.

"I liked that clipboard. But isn't this... a bit too much?" Phil missed it. It had been very black, very official, very useful. Part of the stand gear, it had survived seven years of catastrophes. Irreparably ruined by him smashing it against the heads of those bodyguards. Those sunglasses were his favourite ones, too, but they got bent out of shape from him sticking them through the boss' eye into the brain.

"Everyone thinks that, especially among the juniors. The machines are for those that want to seek an audience with you. Those had been my idea, and the juniors happily donated money. Once the desk collapsed, we relocated the shrine to a different desk we brought, and put it by the wall."

"The desk did what?" He realised that the desk was, in fact, a different one to before. He remembered that his original desk could survive three agents sitting on it - Himself, Barton and Romanoff, as the Great HQ Flood of '04 proved.

"It collapsed from the weight. It was covered in a two meter deep pile of offerings, and someone later also realised it would have made working difficult."

Coulson did not want to imagine how much effort it would have taken to dismantle that shrine on his desk, so he decided to be grateful. Besides, he never used that wall for anything anyway. Live and let live, as some say.

One day, of sheer boredom and a lot of curiosity, he went through the post-it notes. Many asked for luck in missions, and he just chucked those away. Some asked for advice, mostly along the lines of how to shoot better, how best to get out of certain situations. At first he tried to ignore those, but they kept niggling at his thoughts. He wanted to help - he just didn't want them to increase in number, or make him any more worshipped. The awe in the eyes of the trainees was getting disturbing.

And then he gave in to the temptation. He sent anonymous messages on the private network in reply. He knew that he would just be deluged in requests now, but. Well. They needed it, and it wasn't like he couldn't help.

When agents came in for help personally, they always had donuts from the machine. The more help they asked for, the more expensive the brand. His office was cleaned every morning by a pair of junior agents, and his plants watered by a reverent trainee. He hadn't asked, but they just showed up and helped out, hoping for a blessing. It was strange, but he wasn't about to refuse free labour, not when it came with constantly refilled cups of fresh hot coffee whenever he came back to his office (it wasn't like there were brownies that he could hire to do that for him for free), or was about to go to a long meeting.

He didn't give blessings to them though. That would have been weird, no matter how many times they asked.

The first clue that something was happening, was that whenever he walked across the HQ, he always recognised every agent, but he chalked it up to having been bored recently and reading every file he could access. And someone had given him a thematic radio. It was just there, on the shrine, playing "Secret Agent Man", "Mission Impossible", and other tunes, related to Secret Agents or Badassery. It always came up with new songs when he got bored, so he assumed Stark made it. He grew to like it.

The second clue was that all missions started to go very smoothly when he was around, or gave a passing thought that it would be nice if they went well.

Then agents started talking reverently about him when he was in earshot, though it could have been that he just became so sneaky they didn't realise he was in the vicinity. Even senior Agents could no longer spot him unless he wanted them to. Agents tiptoed into his office, leaving donuts on the table, unaware of him, and posted prayers on the board while he sat at his desk, working.

He was very surprised the first time it happened, but he grew used to it, sometimes startling the agents by walking over behind them, and saying "Hello Agent -, you asked for help?"

The shrine activity tripled, and some people from other friendly agencies started sending offerings and prayers. Obviously, someone had started to gossip. When he complained to Sitwell, the other agent just smirked.

One day he overheard Jasper solemnly telling new recruits "The first thing you must know, is that Agent Coulson is Badassery. Badass is his second name, we believe. His first name is Agent.

No one knows where he came from. Who trained him. Perhaps he just appeared when the world decided it needed an unstoppable force to fight evil in secret.

The second thing, is that he can do anything. Anything can be used as a weapon. No situation is inescapable. James Bond is a pansy compared to Agent Coulson, God of Badass Secret Agents.

The third thing… He is always watching. Always listening. Always everywhere. Nothing can be hidden from him. Nothing can surprise him. He's seen it all, even the other side. He is the personification of Unflappability, as well as everything else. He has never failed a mission.

Strive to be at least half as good as him, and you'll be among the best, for no one is better than Agent Coulson."

Then the weird things started.

The radios wherever he went started to imitate his own radio with their music choice, while his was now able to pick up any secret station from anywhere in the world.

"Coulson, why do you have MI6 on your radio?" Fury asked, glaring at the shrine, in what might have been jealousy.

"He's the God of Badass Secret Agent sir." Clint replied, examining the shrine.

His suit was immaculate no matter what, even if had spent days in a warzone. On one memorable occasion, Stark had to blow up a full sewer to defeat a maggoty alien. Coulson, unlike everything and everyone else in ground zero, was still immaculate and not resembling walking sludge.

"That is so not fair." Complained one sludge column, with Clint's voice.

No one could spy on him. No one could beat him in a fight. No one could outwit him. Not even a battalion of Doombots, sent to assassinate him, after he accidentally tuned his radio to Dr Doom's Private Radio Station.

His reflexes were like like lightning. Not even bullets could find him, as he found to his happiness and the terror of AIM goons in a mission that had been started with no correct intel.

His aim was against the laws of physics, and he had actually tested that by trying to shoot targets from first improbable, and then outright impossible angles.

His many coffee cups which followed him everywhere and the ones given as offerings refused to cool or be anywhere near empty. They were there whenever and wherever he needed them.

He somehow acquired a Pallas Cat, too. One day it just showed up, napping on his desk. Somehow, it didn't bother him at all, either its presence or lack of origins. He just took it in stride - like he could recently take anything in stride, even flying meatball look-alikes shooting paintballs from the most recent alien invasion. It didn't appear to need anything real, living cats needed, though it happily drunk his coffee and ate his donuts. He named it Unspeakable. It breathed fire and gave off electric shocks, and cold turn invisible.

His pockets acquired weapons and miscellaneous items at an astonishing, and alarming to others, rate. He was pretty sure he even had a dozen bazookas stashed in them at this point, along with the contents of about three junk shops, two bakeries and four sunglasses shops.

And then he woke up one day, and knew he was a deity. His head was full of the knowledge of every agent, everywhere. Every base, everywhere. Every mission, every secret. It was all in his head, a peripheral awareness on which he could focus to find anything he wanted. But it wasn't just agents.

It was every Agency.

He knew of every HYDRA base. Every HYDRA Agent. Every communication and alarm point. All of their weaknesses.

He smiled grimly, checked his bazookas, picked up Unspeakable, and went on a pest control spree.


End file.
